What She Doesn't Know

by Beverly Barton

Yvonne kept her forced smile in place, then stood quietly as Theron and Amy continued their conversation. She watched and listened, realizing how very mutual the attraction between the two was. If it had been under any other circumstances, she would have left them alone. A man hardly needed his mother around when he was trying to impress a young lady. The best she could do was look the other way, backward toward the line that had formed behind them.

  Every muscle in Yvonne’s body tensed when she caught a glimpse of him only moments before she heard his booming Baptist preacher’s voice. She froze to the spot, although every instinct within her told her to run. Roscoe Wells played the politician, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with his constituents. The stocky, ruddy-faced Roscoe’s shock of white hair perfectly matched his thick white mustache. He swept through the crowd, his charisma capturing one and all.

  Yvonne held her breath as he passed by, all the while praying that he would not speak to her. He paused momentarily and stared at her. She thought she would scream; indeed she was screaming quite loudly inside her mind. He smiled at her. The damn man actually smiled at her, then quickly moved on and into the Magnolia Room, totally disregarding the long line of waiting mourners. Roscoe Wells didn’t wait in line, didn’t adhere to the rules that governed others. After all, he was a Wells, and his family’s roots were as deeply planted in Sumarville soil as were the Desmonds’.

  Theron patted her arm. “Mama, are you all right?”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Because the look you gave Roscoe Wells could have curdled milk. I’m glad to see that you’re capable of recognizing at least one white rattlesnake when you see it.”

  “Daddy thinks that man is only pretending to have had a change of heart,” Amy said. “But for a long time now, folks have believed that he truly did repent from his past sins.”

  “That old bastard won’t ever change,” Theron said. “With his past history, I don’t see how any of our people could put their trust in him.”

  Amen, Yvonne thought. If the African American community knew what she knew, he wouldn’t be able to get elected as dog catcher.

  Max’s black Porsche sped down the country road away from Belle Rose and toward town. The night sky spread out overhead like a dark, diamond-studded, velvet canopy. Before he’d left, he had made sure everyone was accounted for and taken care of, to the best of his ability. Mallory had escaped to her room the minute they arrived home. But what should he have expected from her? She was just a kid. A spoiled little girl who was ill equipped to handle tragedy let alone lend comfort to others. In the days and weeks ahead she would need almost as much attention and pampering as his mother. Thank God for Yvonne. She was the only member of the household strong enough to actually be of help. She had given Georgette a mild sleeping pill and put her to bed. And when Max had abruptly asked Nowell Landers to leave, Yvonne had stepped in to soothe Clarice’s rattled nerves.

  He supposed he should have stayed at home, gone to bed, and prayed for sleep. But the tension inside him coiled tighter and tighter until he couldn’t bear another minute trapped inside Belle Rose’s ancient walls. He needed to escape, if only for a couple of hours, to a place where no one depended on him, no one asked anything from him. For the past few years, he had found an undemanding sanctuary in Eartha Kilpatrick’s arms. Sometimes he wondered why the woman put up with him, why she allowed him to wander in and out of her life without asking him for anything more than sex. He supposed half the town knew about their relationship, but he didn’t give a damn and apparently neither did Eartha. She was a good ole gal and deserved more than he could ever give her. But he’d told her from the beginning, been honest with her all along. He had no intention of ever remarrying. And as far as loving another woman—folks would be ice-skating in hell before that would happen.

  The tepid night air, heavy with warm moisture, settled around Max as he zipped the Porsche into the parking lot at the Sumarville Inn. Perspiration dotted his brow and dampened his white shirt. In the distance a rumbling roar and a groaning whistle announced that a freight train had just crossed the bridge over Owassa Creek. After putting up the top on his car and locking the doors, he kept his key chain in his hand as he entered the inn’s lobby. The clock on the wall behind the check-in counter read twelve-twenty-three.

  Max recognized the guy behind the counter. R. J. Sutton. Young. Twenty-four at most, possibly younger. Good looking in a low-class, dangerous sort of way. He had a tatoo of a scorpion boldly displayed on his forearm and a gold stud glimmered in his left ear. Was this what I would have looked like in my twenties, Max wondered, if Philip Devereaux hadn’t married Mama and brought us to Sumarville before I was born?

  “Good evening, Mr. Devereaux.” The guy nodded and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “No, thanks. Ms. Kilpatrick is expecting me.”

  It was a lie, of course. He hadn’t bothered to call Eartha. Max didn’t like having to explain himself to anyone, least of all some minimum-wage flunky. He’d have to speak to Eartha about this boy. There was something about him that made the hairs on the back of Max’s neck stand up. Instinct warned him that if the guy stayed around too long, he was bound to cause trouble. And God knew that was the last thing he needed right now—more trouble.

  As Max turned and headed down the corridor leading to the rooms and suites on the first floor of the inn, he singled out the key to Eartha’s suite. Since her girls had left town, she’d moved from her apartment into the hotel. She’d given him a key this past winter. Tonight when she had stopped by the funeral home, she had squeezed his hand as she’d told him how very sorry she was about Louis. And she’d given him that look, the one that said she was hungry for him. Max didn’t have the slightest idea whether she had other lovers; he really didn’t care. But he suspected that although Eartha had known more than her share of men, she was the type who took them on one at a time.

  He inserted the key in the lock. Lucky for him she had left the safety latch undone. When he shoved gently, the door eased open. She’d also left a light on in the sitting area, a lamp beside the sofa. Max grinned. Had she hoped he would come by tonight? The bedroom door stood wide open. Max’s sex swelled and throbbed. He entered the room quietly. In the semidarkness he saw only the outline of her body beneath the sheet. Her left arm draped one pillow, her long red hair spread out over the second, and a third teetered on the edge of the bed. Lifting first one leg and then the other, he removed his shoes and socks, then sat down on the bed and pulled the sheet away from Eartha’s body. Whimpering, she curled into a fetal position. Max eased down alongside her, then took her into his arms. She came awake with a jerk, her eyelids snapping open and her mouth poised to scream. Max slapped his hand gently over her mouth. She struggled momentarily. He nuzzled her neck, then whispered into her ear.

  “It’s me,” he said and the moment he felt her relax against him, he slid his hand down her neck and over her chest to cup one large round breast.

  “Max,” she sighed against his mouth.

  He kissed her, parting her lips and sliding his tongue inside. She rubbed rhythmically against him, then hurriedly ripped at his shirt until she pulled it from his slacks and undid all the buttons. He slipped his hand up inside her skimpy mint green teddy and cupped her slender hip.

  “I’d thought you weren’t going to make it,” she told him, then ran a series of hot wet kisses over his chest and down his lean belly. While he continued caressing her hip and fondling her breast, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. With heated passion they rushed to remove the remaining barriers of clothing; then Eartha slithered down Max’s body, her mouth and hands wild. She circled his erection and pumped him gently. He groaned deep in his throat. Positioning herself so that he could continue his attentions to her breasts, she began licking him like a lollipop. And when he thought he couldn’t stand anymore, she took him into her mouth and closed her lips around him.

  God, she was good at
this! And unlike some women, she didn’t seem to have a problem going down on a man; indeed she seemed to enjoy it.

  He ached, needing release badly. Seeming to know exactly what he wanted, she continued, bringing him closer and closer to the brink. As the blood rushed through his body and echoed a deafening roar inside his head, he climaxed in her mouth. She swallowed and licked him clean, like a purring kitten washing herself.

  Groaning, Max closed his eyes as his orgasm exploded through his nerve endings, tightening and then relaxing his muscles. When Eartha straddled him and laid her slender form on top of him, he took several deep breaths.

  She kissed him tenderly. “Sleep for a while. I’ll wake you in a few hours and you can fuck me real good before you go home.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a weak smile as he patted her naked butt before she slid to his side and lifted the sheet to cover them.

  Jolie drove through Sumarville. Little had changed in twenty years. Most of the old buildings had been restored and a few had been torn down and replaced by ones she was sure met with the approval of the historical society. Strange how tiny the town looked to her now, after having lived abroad, in New York, and in Atlanta. Sumarville somehow had maintained that lazy, leisurely small town feel. At one-fifteen in the morning, there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere in the downtown area.

  She parked her Escalade in front of the Sumarville Inn. She could have flown and arrived sooner, but she had preferred to drive. She had needed those long hours on the road to build up her courage and to gird her loins for battle. Aunt Clarice and Yvonne would be the only two people happy to see her. They would welcome her with open arms. The Devereaux clan would no doubt prefer to shoot her on sight. Their animosity suited her just fine. There was no love lost between them.

  But she had to admit that she wondered about her half sister. Did Mallory despise her the way Georgette and Max did? More than likely. But it didn’t really matter, did it? After all, Mallory was really Max’s sister, not hers.

  Jolie removed a small suitcase from the back of her SUV, then locked the vehicle before heading toward the inn’s front entrance. A young, lanky, model-handsome man sat in a chair behind the counter, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly parted. She cleared her throat. The man’s eyes opened and he stretched. Slowly. Languidly. Then he smiled at her, and she wondered how many hearts this young stud had broken.

  He stood and came toward her, only the counter separating them. “Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”

  “I’d like a room, please.”

  “Just for tonight?”

  “No, for tonight and tomorrow night,” she replied.

  “Cash or credit card?”

  “Credit card.”

  She unsnapped her shoulder bag, opened her wallet, and removed one of her Platinum cards. When he took the card from her, he read her name.

  “Jolie Royale.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you Mr. Louis Royale’s daughter?” he asked.

  “Yes. His elder daughter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He went through the usual procedure to register her, then handed her a key. “Room two-oh-seven. Take the stairs to your left.”

  “Still no elevators in this place?”

  “No, ma’am. Afraid not.”

  Jolie accepted the key he offered, picked up her suitcase, and walked away.

  “Ms. Royale?”

  “Yes?” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “I’m sure sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jolie realized that she had to get used to accepting condolences. People would expect her to be in mourning. Damn, that was one of the many things she hated about living in a small town—having to live up to people’s expectations. How many Sumarville residents actually endured lives of quiet desperation? How many generations of her own family had spent every waking moment constructing their day-to-day living according to society’s rules and regulations, forever concerned about what other people would think of them?

  Jolie didn’t give a damn what anybody in Sumarville thought of her, but Aunt Clarice would care. And so would Mama, if she were alive. Perhaps she owed it to her family—to the Desmonds—to at least act the part of a true Southern lady.

  After making her way upstairs, she quickly found Room 207, unlocked the door, and went inside. She flipped on the light switch and was pleasantly surprised by the simplicity of the room’s decor. Fairly typical for an economy-priced hotel/ motel but clean and neat.

  She tossed her suitcase on the bed to her left, then kicked off her sandals, removed her sundress, and fell across the bed to her right. Staring up at the ceiling, she thought about tomorrow. Her father’s funeral. She couldn’t—no, she wouldn’t—pretend emotions she didn’t feel. She had come home for the funeral. That would have to be enough. After all, she wasn’t here to pay her respects to a father she had lost long ago; she was here to please Aunt Clarice.

  And to find out if Belle Rose was hers now. “And if it is?” she asked herself aloud. Jolie smiled, thoughts of bittersweet revenge playing inside her head.

  Chapter 5

  Jolie wasn’t surprised that Sumarville hadn’t changed much in twenty years. But somehow she’d thought that Belle Rose wouldn’t seem the same, that it would be different. How odd that it looked just as it had the day her father had sent her away all those years ago. The same winding drive led from the road. The same tall, white wrought-iron gates guarded the entrance. Only the security cameras were new. The grounds appeared unchanged: the same trees, same manicured lawn, the shrubbery and flowers identical to the ones she remembered. And the mansion was as it had been, a remarkable tribute to days gone by. Of course standing outside her SUV and looking in through the closed gates, she couldn’t be sure that on closer inspection she wouldn’t find minor differences. And there was no telling what Georgette had done to the interior of the house that had been in her mother’s family since before the War Between the States. The very thought of that woman living in her mother’s home, being the mistress of Belle Rose and possibly sleeping in Audrey Royale’s bed turned Jolie’s stomach.

  Her inner child longed to drive through the gates and go home to Belle Rose. Memories of her childhood flickered through her mind like faded scenes from a silent movie. Sitting in her father’s lap as he read to her. Her mother coming into her room at night to brush her hair just before tucking her into bed. Playing “Chopsticks” on the piano with Aunt Lisette. Running through the house like galloping horses with Theron Carter when they were grade-school age. Aunt Clarice and she at the kitchen table, laughing and telling silly little jokes as they nibbled on Yvonne’s freshly baked molasses cookies.

  Jolie sighed and shook her head, then got back in the Escalade and started the engine. She could return to Belle Rose, but she could never go home again, never recapture those happy, carefree days before…

  After she had been released from the hospital twenty years ago and her father had brought her home, she had felt terrified for weeks and unable to leave her room without someone staying at her side. Every time she walked out onto the landing, she could see Aunt Lisette’s body sprawled at the top of the stairs. And downstairs she had balked at the kitchen door, refusing to go inside. She knew what she would see there—her mother’s body. And she sensed exactly what she would feel. Sheer panic. The murderer had shot her three times and left her for dead there in the kitchen. And no matter how hard she had tried to remember something—anything—about the killer, her mind refused to cooperate. After all these years, she truly believed that she had never seen the person, that there was no way she could identify him or her. But three months after the Belle Rose massacre, someone had tried to drown Jolie when she’d gone swimming in the pond on the estate.

  Someone had been afraid she might remember.

  Jolie had sneaked out of the house that day, desperately wanting to be alone. It had seemed to her that she was watched every waking minute. Either Aunt Clarice
or Yvonne or her father kept constant tabs on her; even the household day workers had, too. The employees had been curious about poor, crazy Jolie Royale, who had survived the brutal massacre only to lose her mind.

  That day she wore her bathing suit under her clothes—a two-piece suit that had been a top seller in Aunt Clarice’s downtown boutique. The July sun was unmercifully hot, so the cool spring-fed water of the pond felt refreshing. She swam the length of the pond a couple of times, oblivious to her surroundings, experiencing a freedom she hadn’t known in months. No haunting memories.

  No watching eyes. But suddenly she heard someone enter the pond and dive under the water. Thinking perhaps it was Sandy or even Theron, who had not yet gone away to college, she didn’t panic. Not at first. But when a hand grabbed her foot and yanked her under, she suddenly realized the murderer had returned to finish the job. She kicked and squirmed and somehow managed to free herself. She swam to the edge of the pond, hurried to gain her footing on the soft, mushy ground and then, leaving her clothes behind, ran as fast as she could through the woods. Not once did she look back, not until she reached Belle Rose and saw Yvonne hanging out sheets to dry in the fresh summertime air. To this day she had no idea how she’d been able to escape.

  When she’d told her family what had happened, Yvonne and Aunt Clarice had gone to the sheriff, using the incident to try to convince him that the real killer was out there running around free, posing a threat to Jolie. But the sheriff hadn’t been persuaded by the ranting of an unbalanced child. On the other hand, her father had taken the situation seriously and made immediate plans to send Jolie away—for her own safety. At the time she had believed the sincerity of his motives and hadn’t put up a fuss when he’d sent her the very next week to stay with his cousin, Jennifer, and her husband, Paul Dean Underwood, an army colonel. Later in the fall, she had entered Ansley Academy, a private boarding school in Virginia. Exactly six months after her father sent her away, he’d married Georgette Devereaux and brought her and her son to live at Belle Rose. Jolie had never returned home. On breaks from Ansley, she had flown to whatever region of the world Jennifer and Paul Dean had resided at the time. When the couple had died in a plane crash when she was twenty-four, she had lost her true family.